Mourning Glory
by tineryn
Summary: The morning after Tarnin Austa at the end of the first age, Glorfindel finds himself somewhere unfamiliar, and must reconcile his past before he can move on with his future. Slash, multi-part, WIP
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_Mourning Glory_

**Rating: **Teens

**Summary: **The morning after Tarnin Austa at the end of the first age, Glorfindel finds himself somewhere unfamiliar, and must reconcile his nightmarish past before he can move on with his future.

**Warnings: **Slash, violence, death, other heavy themes

**A/N: **Um, fair warning, not a lot of planning went into this story. Instead, I dove in head first. I am also a shameless canon abuser, and am prone to experimentation. Special thanks go to both twopoint and noldoparma for their excellent job betaing! I couldn't have made this readable without you.

* * *

The next thing Glorfindel knew after the fire, the falling, and the impact,

_ (oh, the guilt, don't forget the horrible, aching anguish. blood on your sword and rot in your lungs every time you breathe, and always the memory of how much you relished it. you got distracted and let your city burn)_

was waking up on clean linens. The light filling the room was clear, bright, and soft, filtered through gray clouds from recent showers, refracted by water still clinging to the pane. The morning

_ (mourning, sobbing, broken buildings, family homes, fire, roof caving in, traitor, casting himself into the flames)_

colors reflected in the bedroom decor, green, silver, and gray-blue like the sky after rain, like the summer mist that always settled in the valley his bedroom overlooked, where he and Ecthelion had sparred and slid and laughed during the snow of the early spring, when blades of grass poked through the white.

Glorfindel took stock of himself and his surroundings. There were no injuries--no wrappings, no braces, no pain, no drugged aftertaste--he was clean, and there was a pile of luggage in the corner of the room. The room itself was simple, but not spartan, with a wardrobe, a closet, a desk, a few comfortable chairs, a small table, and a door that probably led to a bathroom. It looked like something one would lend an average long-term guest, fit neither for a king nor a foot soldier. There was also a bedside table, upon which, as was his custom, he had placed the somewhat ornamental dagger he normally clipped to his belt, unsheathed, with the point of the blade facing the wall at his head.

How had he gotten here? The previous day was a bit foggy. The celebration, the speeches, the dancing, and then... there was a haze of chaos, screaming, blood flying and blades clashing, and horror. Cold, falling, fire, impact. Had Ecthelion found him, dragged himself out of the fountain, and hauled Glorfindel all the way from the bottom of the mountain? 

_ (wait--the fountain? why would Ecthelion be in a fountain, and why would I have... what alcohol-induced nightmares have I suffered?)_

Still, the fact remained that this was decidedly not Ecthelion's house, nor his own. What had probably happened was that he and his friend had both celebrated too enthusiastically, and that some kinsman had taken pity on them both. The eve of Tarnin Austa, after all, had been warm, and the sunset had been fire lighting the snow-capped mountains and the sky.

Slowly, Glorfindel sat up. The floor, he noticed, cold against his feet, was made of stone tile. A pair of slippers had been lain out courteously at the foot of his bed. They looked like silk, but Glorfindel let his feet remain bare. As he stood, leaving the sheets behind, he noticed he was bare-chested, clad only in loose, blood-red trousers, shiny and smooth like satin. The window, he also noticed--or rather, the door, hidden by long, sheer drapes--had been left open, and cool, dewy morning air floated in with the breeze, tickling him and raising goose-pimples on his arms. The balcony beyond the doors was small, just large enough for two people to stand and lean against the railing to look at the garden.

Overcome by curiosity_,_ Glorfindel stepped lightly across the room, around the curtain, and outside. It wasn't quite a valley, but he could hear a river rushing past, and down. Outside his room, though, the ground was level, only a few feet below him. He was on the ground floor. A stone bench sat several yards away beneath a tree, but his window--it must have been facing south or southeast--was well placed to receive sunlight at almost any hour of the day.

Glorfindel entertained the idea of hopping over the rail and exploring the garden, ignoring the fact that he was barely dressed, but then noticed that the earth beneath his small balcony was home to six frightfully ugly plants. "What the...?" It was unlike any cultivated flower Glorfindel had ever seen. They might have been a foot high, scrawny looking, with fuzz on the stems, wide leaves, and a bulbous green head surrounded by pointed green leaves. He supposed it was some sort of flower, but it hadn't bloomed yet, and looked rather like a weed.

"They're sunflowers."

Glorfindel started, and spun around. He hadn't noticed, but a second railed porch sat next door to his, overlooking the same garden, or the elf occupying it. The stranger was pale, dark-eyed, surrounded by thick black hair, already dressed despite the hour in what looked like a cassock, and stared unnervingly over at Glorfindel in what he supposed was meant to be a friendly manner.

"Sunflowers," he continued. "The seeds were a gift from the Tawa when they visited this winter. Supposedly, the flower is large and yellow, and always stares reverently up to Anor. Or, at least, that was how they explained it to me when I asked. The fruit it bears is also edible, and travels well. A true gift from the sun god, he said." The dark elf paused, then; he must have noticed that Glorfindel was staring at him. "I'm sorry. You retired quite early last night; I hope you rested well." He bowed, stiffly formal all of a sudden. "I'll take my leave now. I'm sure you have plans, and I have quite a bit of work left over from last night." Then he quickly knotted his long hair behind his head, leaving a few small, beaded braids loose, and flipped them over his shoulder with what might have been a smile. He was gone nearly as suddenly as he had appeared, and it didn't occur to Glorfindel that he hadn't said a word in reply the whole time.

Alone again, Glorfindel didn't move right away; instead, he remained staring in the direction of the other elf's porch. He hadn't introduced himself--neither of them had--but the stranger's manner seemed to imply that they had already done so. Last night? What had he said... Glorfindel had retired early last night. Surely not? If last night was Tarnin Austa, he'd have stayed out until nearly dawn! Not for the first time, he wondered what had become of Ecthelion; his friend had been even worse off --

_ (screaming, terror, fire, blood, boiling, drowning, choking awful grief oh god 'Thel)_

--and Glorfindel couldn't help but wonder if they hadn't been taken in by the same kind stranger. He should have asked when the small, dark elf was still outside. Not that it mattered; Ecthelion was always a lightweight, and never a morning person.

After a while, he went inside and shut the door. The really confusing thing about all this was the pack stowed in the corner of the room. He didn't recognize it, but it was thick and well-worn. Was he borrowing someone else's room? On a whim, he snatched the pack up and overturned it on his bed. A flint, some fletching supplies for arrows--ah, yes, there were a bow and quiver against the wall--trousers, breeches, a few tunics, a few extra hairbands, a comb, a small knife... Glorfindel picked up the silver tunic and held it against his chest and arms. Apparently the pack _was_ his? He pulled the shirt on. It fit perfectly, as if it were made for him. The breeches, too. He did not recognize anything that had come from the pack, or even the bag itself, but it was getting more difficult to doubt that it was his.

After a second of contemplation, he put it out of his mind. He hadn't planned on spending the night anywhere but his own bedroom at home; he couldn't have packed anything, least of all things he didn't even own. He'd find out whose clothes he was borrowing later, and thank them properly while at the same time apologizing for the intrusion.

Now, however, began the more difficult part of his day. He could feel a lingering discontent stirring in his stomach: partially anxiety

_ (lingering terror like a hare that escaped an arrow down a foxhole)_

and partially hunger. Mostly hunger. No, all hunger, he decided firmly. And now to find the kitchens. Glorfindel stepped into the slippers at the foot of his bed, and then closed his hand around the plain, bare, worn hilt of his ornamental dagger--wait, bare? How had he not noticed that? Glorfindel flipped the blade around in his hand, and examined it closely. No stones cast into the handle, no intricate engraving, no prayer etched into the blade. Nothing. It was sturdy, well cast, and well used. It felt familiar in his hand, but... Glorfindel weighed his options. Whose home was he in? Part of the advantage of a decorative blade was that he could always wear it without fear of insulting his host and would never have to travel without a weapon. This one, however, was definitely not an accessory or decoration.

After weighing it in his mind, he came to a decision, returned the dagger, and kicked off his slippers. He'd wear nothing on his belt, then, but the small knife he had found in the bag could easily be concealed into a boot. He made sure the knife was sheathed securely, and then pulled his boots on. They fit snugly all the way up his calf to the knee, so he slipped the knife straight in.

With that, he took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hall.

Glorfindel would never quite remember what happened next. One second, he was standing outside the door to his room, and the next, there was an impact, a tangle of limbs, a fist in his hair, and in a flash Glorfindel had the stranger pinned, his concealed knife at their throat, chest heaving, eyes flashing, his opponent pale and frightened.

"Glo-Glorfindel!" he gasped. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you like that, and I certainly didn't mean to run you down! Adar always did say that I need to calm down, I mean..." He broke his rambling, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Glorfindel?" he resumed after a pause, more calmly. "Could you please let me up now? I promise I won't run you over again."

Glorfindel breathed in and out, and forced his nerves and his pulse to stop racing. He nodded, and slowly climbed to his feet, belatedly offering the other a hand. "I... sorry, you-" He broke off suddenly, and looked away. The other elf looked startlingly familiar, something about the eyes, or the shape of the mouth. To distract himself, he returned the knife to the sheath in his boot. "Startled me. That's all." The familiar elf gaped for a second. The explanation was a bit anti-climactic for both parties.

"Wow," he said. "Uh, why yes, I quite obviously did. I never really took you for the overreacting type, but, wow, there you have it." A moment, then he turned red and grimaced. "I apologize again. My brother does say I need to think before I speak."

Glorfindel waved it off in what he hoped was a casual manner. "Not at all. What brother is this you speak of?"

"Why, Elladan, of course! Glorfindel, are you playing me?" The brown haired elf's expression brightened considerably. "You have been here for nearly a week now, and my twin and I are still not memorable enough for recognition?" Glorfindel felt himself whiten. He had been here a week, and he had met these people? Elladan's brother was speaking again, and Glorfindel had not been listening: "...playing you, to be honest. I never expected you to tell us apart after only a week, when our tutors got it wrong for fifty-odd years. And to make it even more difficult for you, I'm borrowing his shirt."

"Of course I'm playing," Glorfindel said after a moment, plastering a smile onto his face and changing the subject. "But what I really do not remember is how to get to the kitchens. Will you show me?"

Elladan's brother ran long fingers through his dark hair, straightened his tunic, and then glanced at Glorfindel with a grin. "I was just on my way to get breakfast now. How about we eat together?"

The kitchens were not far. Down the hall, past some wide windows, down a flight of stairs, and through a great set of carved wooden doors. "Remember? If you keep going that way, you get to the room where we hold large dinners like the one shortly after you arrived, and beyond that, at the end, is the Hall of Fire."

"Oh, of course." Glorfindel did not remember. He was sure he had not been here before; how many days of his life had he lost?

_ (lost like a twisting, narrow cavern, a twisting, impossible path through fire and snow, we will perish, will never, never see shelter again)_

They opened the door to warmth and controlled chaos. All the light in the kitchen was yellow and inviting, and elves rushed about from table to oven to water basin, cleaning, preparing various breakfasts, and a few in the far corner looked like they were butchering venison for later.

"Elrohir! It's been too long since you visited us at work. And you must be Glorfindel?"

Elrohir grinned wide and threw an arm around the elleth. "Glorfindel, meet Nanwen, queen of the kitchens! She always saved me dessert when I was small and had been sent to bed without any."

"You'd never guess it now, but Elrohir here was in trouble quite a lot as a youngling." She said this with an air of gravity and seriousness, but it was broken into peals of laughter when someone called from across the kitchen.

"Nanwen! Don't tell lies! Elrohir is still troublesome, and you know it."

Elrohir pouted at this, and turned red. Plucking up his courage, Glorfindel chimed in. "I had gathered this on my own, yes, when he ran straight over me this morning as I was leaving my room."

"Yes," Elrohir piped in, "and I paid dearly for that! Within inches of my life! I think I shall never recover from the emotional scars." He glared playfully at Glorfindel, and then turned to Nanwen. "My dear, Glorfindel and I seem to have inadvertantly missed the main breakfast. Would you be so kind as to prepare us something to eat?"

Nanwen smiled. "Of course. How does fresh granola with milk and berries sound?" They both nodded, and she gestured to a small table by a window. "Sit yourselves over there, and it shall be prepared shortly, along with a pot of tea."

"Of course. Thank you very much! You are ever my favorite lady," he said, and bowed with a flourish before leading Glorfindel to the afore-mentioned table.

After they sat down, the tea arrived first in an elegant pot with two matching cups. Glorfindel studied it for a minute, but didn't recognize the story. He poured Elrohir's tea, and then his own, and they drank the first cup in silence.

"Say," Glorfindel spoke first, gazing at the dewy courtyard outside the window. "Who lives in the room beside mine? I hadn't realized anyone was there until this morning."

Elrohir thought for a few seconds. "Lives? Why, nobody! Those are guest rooms, after all. Only you live there, and only until we find you a proper apartment."

"There was a small, dark Elf on the balcony next to mine. He had a lot of hair, and looked serious. I hope I was not dreaming the whole thing!"

"No, no no." Elrohir waved his hand, and then lifted his arms as someone brought over their meals, then relaxed when the person walked away. "It was probably just Erestor. My father's advisor--have you met him? He works quite a bit, especially now with the trip coming up, and sometimes when he works late into the night, he stays in an empty guest room instead of going all the way home."

"All the way?"

"Yes, he has a small cottage to himself, but it's quite the long walk, all the way at the very edge of Imladris. I don't know why he lives out there; there's nobody else around, other than a guard post a short distance away."

"I see." Nobody said anything for a few minutes after that, and with only the clink of dishes and kitchen chatter in the background, Glorfindel used the lull in conversation to finish eating.

"Say, Glorfindel?" Elrohir said as he poured them each a final cup of tea, once they had finished eating. "Where did you come from before you came here? I don't think you ever said."

Glorfindel wished for a moment that he knew what "here" this Imladris was. After a moment of unexplainable hesitation, he said simply, "Gondolin. The house of the Golden Flower."

To Glorfindel's surprise, this answer caused Elrohir to burst into laughter. "Oh, Glorfindel," he said, catching his breath, "you have a surprising sense of humor! Surely, then, you have been talking to my mother!"

"What? What do you mean?" Something inside him began to grow cold. "Was your mother also from Gondolin?"

Elrohir apparently had not noticed Glorfindel's change in demeanor, and flicked away the question with a casual wave of his wrist. "Oh, sure, if by Gondolin you mean Lothlorien, and surely it is as magnificent!" He leaned over the table conspiratorially, and raised an eyebrow. "But she must have told you about the games my brother and I used to play as children."

"Nay, I am not sure that she did?" Glorfindel answered carefully, slowly, as if stepping across glass that groaned and cracked beneath his feet.

"Ah," Elrohir grinned. "Well, Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer was always a favorite tale in our bedroom when we were children. Elladan and I used to beg for it, and Adar loved telling it. 'And if it weren't for Glorfindel, charging into battle against a demon at impossible odds,' he used to say, 'neither you nor I would probably be here now.' And, well, Elladan and I used to stage the battle all over the house, taking turns who got to be Glorfindel, and who the evil Balrog. The whole staff was our captive audience, and unfortunately for us they love reminding us of it even now."

Glorfindel swallowed. "And..."

_ (blisters and frostbite and blood and oh god what was I thinking I'm doomed anyway, children and women screaming and everyone abandoning me, running down the pass, there's no way I can do this oh god it hurts I'll never stop falling what if it survives what happens when I hit the ground? 'Thel I'll see you soon. I'm sorry everyone I should have done better. painpainpainpainpain)_

"And who would win... when you played it?"

Elrohir scrunched his brows. "Glorfindel, of course! We weren't out to rewrite family history, but celebrate it! And, don't tell my brother I said so..." Elrohir leaned back in his chair. "But I was always much better at reenacting his death scene."

Glorfindel couldn't breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."

* * *

_end chapter one_


	2. Chapter 2

_Notes: I am sorry this lingered so long. This is why I should only post completed works! I promise you I didn't have the intention of abandoning this, but life, other fandoms, and inattention got in the way. I meant to update this a while ago, but I can't find my old story notes, so I had to re-plot it and figure out the timeline all over again. Also, I did a shoddy job editing. I'll probably come back and spruce up this chapter and the previous one.  
_

_To anyone who is curious, this is set in the middle of the third age, somewhere in the years preceding III 1432. I'm probably screwing with canon here, but from what I can find and what I remember, Gondor previously conquered Harad, and at some point loses it again. In my haphazard flipping through EOA's timeline, the civil war in III 1432 seems to be a good time for this breaking away to begin. Also, given that, Greenwood has already become Mirkwood, and the Witch King is causing all sorts of trouble in the north at the same time, it seems like a pretty convenient spot to resurrect heroic elf lords of yore._

_

* * *

_

When Erestor finally woke, it was with a faint sense of surprise and not a little bit of suspicion. He was in his favorite guest room: the one with the silver filigree on the white ceiling, with leaves and swirls bursting out from the fixture in the center and crawling down to crown the walls. More importantly, the sun had risen. He had collapsed, fully clothed, on top of the bed, in the early hours of the morning, but had nevertheless fully expected to wake in darkness.

How long had it been since he had slept unaided for more than an hour or two at a time? Erestor thought about it, counting days back and outlining his activities, but couldn't immediately remember. Certainly not the night before last, when he had, on his lord's order, returned home shortly after the sun set. Then, he had lain awake, staring at the shattered moonlight dancing across his cottage ceiling, counting the stars he could see outside his window, and imagining all the things he could have done differently that day. When Anor finally dragged herself over the horizon, he had allowed himself to dress and freshen up before walking to the Last Homely House under the deep pink and orange sky and the stars that survived the early daylight.

It also had not been the day before that, when, in his restlessness, he had managed to reorganize the entire filing system in both his and his lord's offices. Nor could it have been the day before that, when he had spent until dawn making notes and extracts out of the single text he could find anywhere about the language and linguistics of the Tawa people other than what the Tawa had given him themselves.

He did remember about a month ago, waking up in this very bed, with Lord Elrond hovering anxiously--angrily--over him, eyebrows creased and a glass vial clutched tightly in one hand. Erestor had apparently missed their scheduled meeting, and Lord Elrond had come looking for him. Elrond had found him--allegedly--collapsed over his desk with his eyes closed, dead to the world.

For the following week, Elrond had forced him to down a vial of sedative every night by midnight at the absolute latest, and would glare at him if he saw his face before seven o'clock the following morning. Of course, the moment Elrond ceased watching him swallow it, Erestor began dumping the medication into the potted plants until it stopped coming altogether.

Erestor stood carefully. His legs felt giddy, unready to fully support his weight, but he managed to walk slowly across the room without any mishaps. Once in front of the mirror, he tugged his robe into place, smoothing out the wrinkles as he did so. Then he undid his half-braid, which had come partially undone and had begun to tangle visibly, and brushed it out between long fingers. The smaller, beaded braids, he was glad to see, had survived the night.

Still, Erestor couldn't help but wonder, how could he have slept this late? The bedroom was full of clear, white light, not rosy or golden like the sunrise, and the lingering sensation of dew in the air was rapidly evaporating in the sun, and the cool, fresh sensation of early morning was quickly receding. The sky--he glanced outside--was grey, but did little to dampen the bright morning atmosphere. Really, it should have been more than enough to wake an almost debilitatingly light sleeper like himself. The last time he had woken this late, his lord had forcibly drugged him.

At least, he admitted to himself as he stared into the mirror, he dark smudges under his eyes had finally vanished; that was good. Also, after working through the knots with his fingers, he finally had his hair mostly under control. Most of the knots had come free, and yesterday's braid hadn't kinked his hair noticeably. Erestor gave his reflection a once-over, and then gathered his long, heavy hair into one section and flipped it over his shoulder.

Erestor glanced at the door to the hall, but trepadation curled in his gut, and he took a few quick steps out onto the balcony in the opposite direction. There was so much to do! The fact that he had already wasted so many hours of the day made his nerves quake. In only a few short months, he would begin a very long journey, and the nature of the work that had to be done was impossible in the wild. And Lord Elrond had the nerve to drug him anyway? That had to have been what happened. He recognized the disorganization of his thoughts, the weakness of his limbs, the heaviness of his body as he awoke. If anything, his lord should have been supplying a steady stream of stimulants in order for him to stay awake and finish it all!

No. Erestor took a deep, slow breath, in and out, and leaned forward against the railing. There was no use, he told himself, in obsessing over something that had already happened. Blaming and worrying would only impede his progress today. He had to re-balance himself, to put it out of his mind, and find his calm place. The grey sky was so bright that it could almost have been called white. The greens and browns of the earth looked deep and moist today, but not vibrant, not exactly. The air was cool; it cut through fabric, but was not biting or uncomfortable.

Also, on the balcony next door, a blonde Elf had just appeared: Glorfindel. He had arrived in the post-dawn hours exactly six days ago, on a beautiful gray dapple mare with dark eyes and a docile temperament, who looked like the sky before a snowfall. He had said that her name was River, and that she liked to eat buttercups. He, evidently, also liked buttercups, because during the ride he had braided a few into his hair, and three more poked gaily out of a tear in his tunic.

Next door, Glorfindel was looking at the courtyard as if, the day he arrived, he had not received a tour of all of Imladris, and had not personally requested his guest room in just that location. While the Elda was not paying attention, Erestor studied him. His expression, quite frankly, was confusing. His eyes flickered almost imperceptibly from one emotion to the next: confusion, awe, tranquility, sadness, terror, confusion, awe, all in rapid succession. At some moments, it appeared that he had slid out of the here and now, only to drag himself back again with great effort.

After a moment, Glorfindel seemed to have snapped away from whatever internal demons held his consciousness at bay. He then grasped the railing with both hands, and poised to vault over it, only to freeze at the last second. The ground below him, he must have noticed, was home to six growing things. The elf's young brow scrunched in distaste as he stared at the offending plants.

"They're sunflowers," Erestor volunteered. He schooled his expression, and tried--and probably failed--to look open and friendly. Glorfindel, however, must not have noticed him: the Elf spun around rapidly, complexion draining slightly, mouth open, eyes wide. Erestor ignored this. "Sunflowers. The seeds were a gift from the Tawa when they visited this winter," he explained. Glorfindel looked taken aback rather than interested in this volunteered information. Oh well, Erestor sighed privately. He had started now; he might as well finish the explanation. "Supposedly, the flower is large and yellow, and always stares reverently up to Anor. Or, at least, that was how they explained it to me when I asked. The fruit it bears is also edible, and travels well. A true gift from the sun god, he said."

A long, awkward silence followed.

Erestor shifted. He suddenly felt the need to flee, and made excuses. "I'll take my leave now. I'm sure you have plans, and I have quite a bit of work left over from last night." He pulled his hair back tightly, leaving only the small braids loose, attempted a smile, spun on his heel, and returned inside without another word.

He crossed the room on quick, wide strides, refusing to look at the mirrors or the sunlight playing across the walls, or back at the wide windows and their billowing curtains. Some mornings, coming to work was like setting a bone: best done as quickly as possible before you have time to think about it.

He shrugged his nerves away, reminding himself that once he got started, everything would be fine, and if worse came to worst, he could always delegate tasks. It was not as if he ever did; some of his assistants were such in name only, and had long since found other activities to occupy their time when Erestor displayed no sign of sharing his work load with anyone.

The fact that he even had this much to do made him faintly angry. None of the other Elven realms had to deal with this; his lord was the only one who made the world of Men his business, and only then for his brother's lineage in Gondor: an indirect line that no longer held power. All the same, the political tension in the south and Gondor's shaky hold on their "annexed" states somehow, at the end of the day, ended up in his office, on his desk, and if Erestor were truly honest with himself, he would admit that he didn't know what he would do with his long nights if this were not the case.

Everywhere the windows were open; he could feel the long, spidery fingers of the cool morning breeze running across his scalp and up his sleeves, billowing in his clothing as he walked: out the door, down the hall, around a sharp corner, behind the tapestry, up the winding servants' staircase and straight into the offices adjacent to the library. The route, after many hundreds of years, was familiar. But this time, rather than moving across the room and settling to work at his own desk, he turned through one more doorway into his Liege's office, shutting the heavy door loudly and firmly behind him.

He didn't bother with formalities. "I know what you did," he announced sharply, looking pointedly at Lord Elrond, whose first strategy was, in turn, to focus on his menial paperwork and grant Erestor only half of his attention.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, "unless you mean that I ate oatmeal this morning, with honey, at the breakfast you failed to attend." Lord Elrond met his eyes then. "I am correct in my assumption that you also did not eat privately?" The glance became a glare, and Elrond's knuckles whitened a little around his quill.

"I ate," Erestor defended weakly. He set his jaw stubbornly and crossed his arms in front of himself.

"Oh really?" his lord questioned, eyebrows raising doubtfully. "And who delivered this to you?"

"Um... a servant?"

"And what did you eat?" The corner of his lord's mouth was twitching, but with amusement or irritation, Erestor could not tell.

"Uh," Erestor fumbled, ending an awkward, telling pause with the first thing that came to his mind, "scones?"

"What kind of scones?" Elrond had, by now, given up all pretense of working. He climbed to his feet and came out from behind the desk, mirroring Erestor's pose, albeit with straighter, more confident shoulders.

"Um," he managed, and tried not to shrink any further.

"And why is it that whenever you lie about your well being, you cross your arms and hunch your shoulders?" Elrond stepped closer, until they were almost nose to nose, his liege towering over Erestor's small frame.

"I don't know?"

Elrond let out a great sigh, and then stepped away from Erestor. "There is fruit and cheese on your desk. Eat it."

Erestor forcibly straightened his posture, and stared down his nose at the floor. "Yes, my lord."

"And I did not drug you. I should have drugged you. I _will_ drug you, tonight, but last night, my son found you at your desk. Again."

"I'm sorry, my lord," he tried, "it won't happen again."

Lord Elrond rolled his eyes, then turned and waved one hand dismissively. The morning sun was blinding in the window behind them, and lit up a few of his stray hairs like fire. "Just go eat," he said resignedly, without turning to look at his chief counselor. He kept his back to Erestor until he left.

Back in his own office, sat on a tray right on top of all his other papers, he found a plate of various cheeses and fruit, and a kettle of plain black tea, which, by now, was stone cold. He picked up one slice of cheddar distastefully and put it in his mouth. As usual, it tasted like nothing. He sighed, and pushed the whole setting away, sending his desk into disarray with the motion. A book and a few stray quills clattered to the floor, but for once, he didn't bother to pick them up.

Just another beautiful morning, he thought, and then took a long swig of cold tea. He wouldn't get much done that day.

* * *

_please tell me what you think!_


End file.
